


A Song for St. Cecilia

by secondsflat



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: 1956, Friendship, Gen, Grieving, Mary's death, Paul/George friendship, Platonic Relationships, Songwriting, flashbacks to childhood, school age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:28:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22607776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondsflat/pseuds/secondsflat
Summary: For weeks, it’s easy for Paul to ignore the tugging in his gut when it’s all major chords and the scrape of his boots on cobble, but it sneaks up on him the way the dark does at the end of the day: nearly unnoticeable at first, a shadowed tinge at the edge of his perception, and then pervasive and suffocating. The feeling offorever nothingnessalways catches up to him, no matter how much he tries to drown it out with rock ‘n roll.And that is why today… today he doesn’t know where he’s going until he’s already there, dripping on the front step of the Harrisons' council house with Ian James’s guitar strapped to his back.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 21





	A Song for St. Cecilia

**Author's Note:**

> Sincere apologies for anachronisms, Americanisms, or any other -isms that might have unwittingly sneaked in. Notes at the end.
> 
> In memory of my own St. Cecilia.

*******

**December, 1956**

_Mary McCartney, deceased, has done the ironing._

_Paul can’t stop thinking about it. In church as Michael sullenly snaps hat clips during the homily; at the cemetery as soil falls sieve-like through his fingers, ashes to ashes, onto the coffin; now, at home, after all his aunties have finally left, it loops in his mind infinitely: before she’d gone to hospital, his mum had ironed his best trousers because she’d wanted him to look tidy for her funeral._

_Paul kicks off his nicest pair of shoes, loosens his tie, and folds himself small and sideways into his father’s chair. Everything had happened so fast; she’d been all right until suddenly she just... wasn’t. He doesn’t even remember much about the last time he saw her, really, aside from she’d looked sort of sunken and colorless against the stark white of her hospital bed. A bit like a withered apple, he recalls thinking. There’d been blood on the sheets._

_And still, she’d ironed his trousers. With fucking pressed creases, even._

_Jim McCartney knocks his pipe into the flat of his hand and shakes away little crumbs of spent tobacco leaves. The smell mixes with the crushed lavender in the ashtray— the last remains of Jim’s summer garden— and sticks in Paul’s nose, more sickly and overwhelming than usual; it makes him feel lightheaded. He closes his eyes. All he really wants, more than anything, is to crawl into his bed and sleep. “What will we do now?” Paul mumbles. He’s half surprised to hear himself ask it aloud._

_Jim strikes a match and lights his pipe. “We’ll carry on, son.”_

*******

And so that’s what Paul does.

For a few days he goes to the docks; he has a longing for familiarity, for rope-smell and gulls. He sits on icy stone walls there, kicking his heels to the rhythm of men unloading boats, practising the same three chords on his guitar over and over until they are muddled and messy and his fingers are too numb to know the difference. He ducks under dewy archways and imagines himself adrift on the water, the romance in letting go, relenting and relinquishing his very fate to something as ungovernable as wind or rain. He climbs in the broken windows of abandoned warehouses and plays his guitar loud, too loud, and he’s Elvis for awhile, performing on a makeshift stage for the birds in the rafters. Then he cycles to NEMS, breathing life back into his fingers and listening to the new records until he is chased out.

On days when he feels chilled straight through to every last sinew and artery, when he just can’t bear the hollow in his chest, he wakes up early and cycles to Penny Lane and back. By then the house is empty, and Paul spends the day warm and dry and doing whatever he pleases. Usually, that means napping in the chair, waiting out mornings the color of dirty snow. In the foggy grey of afternoon he carefully clears away his father’s old 78s, the shellac in sable reds and blues weighty but deceptively fragile, and drags his own record player from his bedroom: he likes the salaciousness of playing rock ‘n roll out in the open, feeling it vibrate through his fingers and making him fuzzy-headed with want. Music, he knows, is his one constant. It’s the only thing. The _only_ thing. 

He spends a day or two in Speke, slogging through sodden fields and thick woodland and searching for the rhododendrons he used to climb inside when he was very small, but everything looks the same dead grey in winter. He walks along the banks of the Mersey until he can’t walk anymore, the water and sand seeping into his boots all the way to the old lighthouse. It feels secret here, insulated by brume and stone; the sky is closer to the water than Paul has ever seen. _‘Purgatory,’_ his mind declares, because Mum was a Catholic. He sits on a rock and feels the sharp edge of a single 45 hidden in his jacket. It is only here, at the hallowed ends of the earth, that he will allow himself to give in to the tempting pull of grief. Afterwards, he cleans his face with the rough sleeve of his jacket and makes the long walk back.

When the winter sun gets low and dull he walks his bicycle back to Forthlin Road, makes himself a cuppa and an egg, and spends the evenings alone in his bedroom trying to tease the wound in his heart closed with Chuck Berry and Carl Perkins until the house falls asleep around him. With the door locked his room is dusky and cold; he wraps himself in the quilt from his bed and imagines being _someone_ until he falls asleep on the floor.

*******

For weeks, it’s easy for Paul to ignore the tugging in his gut when it’s all major chords and the scrape of his boots on cobble, but it sneaks up on him the way the dark does at the end of the day: nearly unnoticeable at first, a shadowed tinge at the edge of his perception, and then pervasive and suffocating. The feeling of _forever nothingness_ always catches up to him, no matter how much he tries to drown it out with rock ‘n roll. 

And that is why today… today he doesn’t know where he’s going until he’s already there, dripping on the front step of the Harrisons’ council house with Ian James’s guitar strapped to his back. 

Paul knocks twice. The haptic memory of wind-chafed thighs under short trousers makes him itch uncomfortably, even though it’s been years. He scratches through the fabric with his damp red fingers; they prickle with the effort but his fingernails are bitten too short to provide any real relief. _‘_ _Maybe it was a mistake to come_ _,’_ he thinks, breathing hot air into his cupped hands. He’s just been feeling so lonely.

Sighing, Paul leans his forehead against the door and scratches away a little fleck of peeling paint. _‘You selfish bastard.’_ Disgusting, really, him being here, pretending he hadn’t heard the sobbing from behind his father’s closed bedroom door. _‘What a right piece of shit you are, McCartney.’_ He scuffs a boot against the top step.

Just as he is turning to leave, thinking of going back to the docks for awhile, George’s mum opens the door. “Oh, Paul!” She exclaims. “Come in, love!”

Paul wipes his runny nose on the back of his wrist.

The Harrisons’ front room is cold, and Paul keeps his leather jacket pulled tight. He desperately wants to turn his head and burrow his mouth and nose into the warmth of his collar but doesn’t want to embarass Louise.Instead, he turns his attention to the Christmas tree in the center of the wall, wispy tinsel in silver and gold moving ethereally in the draft from the door. 

“It looks nice, the tree.” Paul says for something to say. There had been a fine mist settling outside and all he can think about is the varnish on Ian’s guitar, already peeling. He flattens what’s left of his quiff against his head. “I’d nearly forgotten it’s almost Christmas.”

“Oh, Paul, haven’t you-?” She leaves off, but he thinks he knows what the question would have been.

“Me Da says-” Paul stops, rubs some heat into the side of his nose above the cartilage. He pretends to hear the groan of a floorboard or scuff of wood grain for an excuse to look over his shoulder, thinking of Forthlin Road, scrubbed unrecognizable from top to bottom by his aunties every Tuesday since… well, since. He adjusts the guitar and coughs dryly. “Me Da says maybe next year.” The weight of the words in his mouth makes him flush a little round the ears. 

He can see Louise’s eyebrows begin to dip and her lips flatten together. Christ, he hates this part, the look all the mums give him now when he accidentally says something soft. When his feelings are not quite so close to the surface, he sometimes intentionally overacts almost to the point of ridiculousness, all sheep’s eyes and shuffled feet, just to prove he can take it— _yes, terrible isn’t it, but we’re holding up all right; me an’ Da are looking after Michael, it’s what Mum would’ve wanted—_ but today he hasn’t the heart. “Erm, is George in?”

There’s the barest trace of pity in Louise’s smile. “Right; of course, love,” She pauses, then tenderly presses her hands flat against the chilled red of his cheeks. It takes Paul by surprise how _lovely_ it feels to simply be touched; he wishes more than anything Louise would stay this way just a little longer, but she lets her hands drop and squeezes his upper arms instead. Pressure builds behind his eyes and he has to look away. “Upstairs; go on. Take your wet things off and I’ll make you a cuppa.”

“Ta-” Paul clears his throat, suddenly finding his voice hoarse. “Ta.” 

Upstairs, he senses George before he sees him: the succor of a plectrum scrape; the dark, heady taste of fingers sliding across the E string. _George._ Paul hasn't seen him since before being sent away, unaware that he was spending his mum’s last few days alive learning the stupid fucking D7 chord in his auntie’s garden.

Paul thinks of turning round, then, right back down the stairs and out the door. He could go back to Forthlin Road and lock himself in the bog alone to practise D7, where it sounds best, echoing and lively. He could wait out the chill of winter there, breathing out all the minor chords of its oppressive, damp air, and think longingly of chords that sound like spring...

...But the truth is he’s a fucking coward and he knows it. He pretends away all his feelings of being unmoored: he screams them angrily out of broken warehouse windows against ugly, jarring wrong notes; he fingerpicks them delicately aside through the haze at the banks of the Mersey. But Da... Da, who disappears behind closed doors and keeps a handkerchief secretly tucked up his sleeve, now- he doesn’t even know what to say to him.

He dries his clammy hands on his trousers and forgets to knock. 

George looks up from the guitar across his lap when he hears the sticky door peel away from the jamb. “Oh…” he says carefully, unsure. “‘Lo, Paul.”

“All right, mate?” He steps tentatively into the room.

George eyes him gingerly. “You haven’t been at school.”

“No.” Paul agrees.

He waits for Paul to say something else. When he doesn’t, George looks down at the plec between his fingers and carefully arpeggiates a chord. “Ian’s narked about his guitar, y’know. Says you’ve had it ages.”

A lick of anger abruptly and unexpectedly flares hot in Paul’s gut. “Ian can fuck off.” He can feel his voice stuffed high up in his nose, thick and rolling, the same as always when he loses his temper. His mum would have sighed at him to hear it so coarse. George just shrugs.

Paul knuckles his eyes and breathes out. He feels like the spring rains in Speke, when the oversaturated fields near their old home— just a few minutes from here— would spit back out all the mud and muck from underneath the surface. That was before they built all the council houses, homes that were sturdy enough to keep out the mud but were quite literally made to crumble. He is suddenly, uncomfortably, a little homesick for Speke.

“Look… I- I brought something.” Paul reaches his right hand into the protected spot between the leather of his jacket and the cotton of his shirt and pulls out a record, the vinyl warm and pliable from the proximity to his heart. He’s been carrying it around like this for days, weeks, maybe, skiving off school and trying to get up the nerve to see Ian or George or anyone. The paper sleeve is no longer crisp but soft and feathery, a deceptive slip of a thing between Paul’s fingers. He hands the record to George for inspection and watches his mouth unhinge in surprise.

“But…how... Wherever did you _get_ it, Paul?”

Paul shrugs one-shouldered with a practised nonchalance, privately thrilled at George’s reaction. “Nicked it.”

It’d been a project. A few months ago when a mate of Ian’s was rumoured to have gotten some American records for his birthday, Paul decided it was up to him to find out the truth, because if he _did_ have them it was only right that he share. And this bloke just happened to have a younger sister who was sweet on Paul. She wasn’t much to look at, poor lamb— a bit like Lonnie Donegan with specs and even flatter tits— but he’d dauntlessly had his tongue halfway down her throat and his hand halfway up her jumper when he’d spotted the name Eddie Cochran over her shoulder on a record near a speaker. And that is how he’d both determined the validity of the rumour and also felt up Christine Molloy in the same productive afternoon.

Of course, he hadn’t nicked the record. Not _really_. He’d just convinced Christine to let him borrow it with a couple of sweet words and well-placed hands (the less her brother knew, the better, Paul reckoned). But it is suddenly very important to him that George _thinks_ he nicked it.

“Christ, Paul- _Eddie Cochran!_ ” George— quiet and even-keeled George— is so utterly _awed_ that Paul feels almost bashful about it. He watches as George immediately stands and unwinds the cord from his older brother’s record player in the corner of the room. An electrical hum thickens the air; George, still growing out of his puppy fat and into his limbs, puts the record in place but drops the needle clumsily in his excitement. It skips like a broken stone over the grooves of the first verse, landing somewhere near the fifteenth floor in _Twenty Flight Rock._

Paul gasps, terror and annoyance both crawling bright and cold up his neck in equal measure before he can tamp them. “Steady!” 

“Sod off.” George mutters before starting the record properly and taking a seat on the floor against the wall. 

Paul listens for skips but hears none. He peels off his wet socks and drapes them over the radiator before settling back against George’s footboard, thinking forlornly of the damp shirt and trousers sticking to his skin. “Yeah, well. Just mind you don’t spoil it.”

The tinny speakers of the record player struggle to keep up from the first shivery lick of the guitar. Paul feels pleasantly punch-drunk; the music hits him just right, buzzing around his skull and thrumming inside his rib cage. Good ol’ Ed.

George whistles low, stretching his legs. _“This_ is music.” He grins lazily, knowingly, in Paul’s direction.

Paul smiles back automatically, but something teases just at the back of his mind: little half-remembered flutterings of light and whispers of sound, a flickering film strip, a poorly tuned radio. He rests his chin on his knee, feeling small and far away.

***

_“Do you know what this is, Paul?” Mummy asks._

_Paul knows shapes. Shapes are dead easy, now he’s three. “Circle.”_

_“Clever boy!” Mummy laughs; Paul smiles shyly, not understanding but pleased all the same at being the cause. He mouths two fingers. “This… this is_ music. _Like your father plays.” She holds out the music for him to see. Music is red, he thinks. Red and shiny, like a fire engine, and round, too._

_He wants to touch it, to know what music feels like under his fingers, what it looks like up close with all those little bumps and lines. He thinks it’s probably the most beautiful circle he’s ever seen._

_He takes his fingers out of his mouth and grabs for it; the music falls to the floor, shattering into pieces, one two three._

***

The song ends and the needle catches in the lock groove with a rhythmic pop of static. Paul chews a calloused fingertip thoughtfully, pulling a bit of skin off between his front teeth and _pfft_ -ing it to the floor with a single sharp breath. It’s a habit he’s picked up recently, now they’ve been practising guitar, one he knows George finds repulsive and more than a little maddening. 

“Play it again,” Paul requests, lisping through his fingers. He digs a chewed-up plec out of his pocket and runs his hand over the body of the guitar, palming away the thin layer of watery mist he brought in from outside. “It’s A, yeah?—”

“Mm. But it changes. There— when he says about the dance—”

“Right, and again—”

“Back to A—”

“I hear it, yeah. Repeats.”

“What is it after A?” George tries out a few chords.

Paul’s fingers get lucky. “It’s D. Uh, D7, maybe.”

“It’s D7, yeah. The refrain—?”

Paul waits for it to come 'round. “Same, sounds like…”

“Bloody simple, this one.”

“Well, it’s the lick that makes it, isn’t it? The dun, duh, duh— how’s he doing it?”

Silence, then a revelation:

“Half barre the A?”

Paul grins at George, elated. “Ha! Fuckin’ hell, a half barre!”

The needle reaches the paper label once more. Paul is vibrating in his skin like a plucked string; he stands up and starts the record again and again and again. 

When they eventually get tired of parsing out the riff, they play little snatches of other things for one another: bits of a Bach piece with pull-offs; a bass line Paul heard on the radio and thought was clever; _Blue Suede Shoes._ It’s a comfortable sort of existence between them, warm and unencumbered by expectation: the only things in the world are _here_ and _now_ , anchored by wound metal to Paul’s fingers.

“I’ve written a song,” he lets slip quietly over a G major. “Well… bits of one, anyway.” Paul hadn’t even thought, just opened his mouth and the words came tumbling out into the air like they were desperate to find purchase. _‘Stupid to have said anything,’_ he scolds himself.

George sits up straighter. “Go on, then. Let’s have a listen.”

“It’s… right, sure,” Paul tucks the guitar closer in his lap and clears his throat. With a final look in George’s direction, his fingers stretch into the G chord. “Okay,” he breathes. He begins with the introduction— G, G7, C—

“What’s the name?”

Paul stops playing. “Huh?”

“You know,” George says, gesticulating. “What do you _call_ it?”

“Oh.” He rubs under his eye. “Uh… ‘I Lost My Little Girl,’ I think.”

“You mean you don’t know?”

“Christ, George, just let me play it, all right?” Paul adjusts the plec between his fingers by pushing it against his teeth and begins again: G, G7, C—

 _“Well, I woke up late this morning; my head was in a whirl. Only then I realized: I lost my little girl.”_ He was quite pleased with himself at that, rhyming _whirl_ with _girl_ ; it was rather _Elvis_ of him, he thought. He pictured himself on a stage— a proper stage, not like his stage at the docks— wearing a smart white jacket and making girls scream with a carnal swivel of his hips. 

He carries on with another few bars of G, G7, and C, the three chords he knew best when he wrote the song, then the second verse: _“Well, her clothes were not expensive, and her hair didn’t always curl—”_ Paul cringes a bit inwardly at the lyric: not his finest writing, but it did fit the rhyme— _“I don’t know why I love her, but I love my little girl.”_ As the verse ends, he privately hopes word doesn’t get ‘round to Christine: he wouldn’t want anyone thinking he was writing love songs about her. 

A bit more confident now, he finishes with a flourish after another rousing round of G, G7, and C. The final ringing notes of the C chord die away in the space between them before Paul looks up again.

“That’s it?” George scratches his arm. 

“Yeah.”

“...Bit daft, though, isn’t it?”

Paul swallows. “What do you mean?”

“The lyrics.”

“Erm, yeah. I suppose.” He shrugs, shifting uncomfortably. “It’s not finished.”

“Why not?”

“Dunno. Can’t find the right words.” He drifts back to his guitar, intending to end the discussion and with it his embarrassment. 

Gradually, George follows, aimlessly plucking out a bass line along the E string. “I could help, if you’d like,” he offers warmly, and Paul is touched at the simple, unaffected tenderness of it. He feels- suddenly, all in an overwhelming rush- a great fondness for George.

“Yeah,” he coughs. “Yeah, that’d be grand.”

“Tea,” Louise announces abruptly, pushing open the bedroom door with her backside. She sets a tray with mismatched cups on the floor between them. “And the biscuits are for Paul,” she says, mock stern, pointing an accusatory finger at George. “Don’t think I don’t know who’s pinched the last of the fig rolls.” Louise hasn’t an angry bone in her body, especially not for her youngest, and George is well aware of it.

“Well, I’m growing, aren’t I?”

“Oh, are you indeed!” Louise scoffs good-naturedly over her shoulder, closing the door behind her. 

The memory of a blue morning years ago unexpectedly flickers into Paul’s mind, then, the kitchen walls in the house in Speke already dripping with humidity. Mum had wanted him to ask Michael to fetch the milk bottles before the birds pecked away at all the tops, desperate for a bit of cream. _“Ahhhsk him?”_ Paul tried her accent on, exaggerating it, dropping his chin and thumbing an invisible lapel. _“Ahhhhhhhhsk. Aren’t we posh, Your Majesty!”_ She’d been so embarrassed she’d hardly spoken for hours after.

Paul grabs his teacup roughly by the base instead of the handle but immediately regrets it when the pad of his thumb is scolded. He sets the cup down with a hiss and sucks the pain out of the burn, pointedly ignoring George’s laughter. Anyway, it was his mum’s own fault, wasn’t it, putting on airs and always trying to make Paul speak like the bloody Queen. Who did she think she was?

Resentment coils acidic and hot in Paul’s throat before he forces himself to swallow it down. _‘What’s wrong with you?’_ he thinks. He rips an errant piece of skin off his bottom lip with his raw thumb and tastes a pinprick of blood. _‘That’s your mum; she’s_ dead _, for Christ’s sake.’_

It’s just _annoying_ , really, being reminded of it all the time. 

If he’s being honest, the silly, affectionate teasing between George and Louise is dear- of course it is- and there’s no reason Paul should feel impatient at it. He tells himself it’s just because he forgets sometimes how young George is.

Paul isn’t a kid, like George or Michael. He’s older now, fourteen. He doesn’t need his mum to thumb dirt from his face or flatten a whorl of hair with her licked palm. He can do without all that.

He’ll have to, now.

Paul sighs at the familiar hollow feeling dragging his limbs. He pushes the biscuits to George. “You have them. I’m not hungry.”

“Ta,” George says, smug.

***

_“Oh, don’t cry, love.” Paul sucks at his bottom lip in little hitching breaths. Mummy kneels, arms heavy at his back and her voice tickling through his chest. “Some music is just delicate, is all.”_

_“Can we mend it?” Paul hates the thought of that lovely red circle broken to bits._

_Mummy smiles. “No, darling.” She looks Paul in the eyes, speaking slowly and softly, dancing the ghost of a touch around the outer edge of his ear. “All the best music has heart. When someone shares their heart, Paul, you must remember to take care, hmm?”_

_Paul hiccoughs, closing his eyes and burying his head in the sleepy woolen warmth of Mummy’s jumper. “Da can mend it.”_

_Mummy laughs._

***

“What time is it?” Paul asks.

“It’s only half-four.”

He blows on his tea and upends the cup, finishing the rest gauchely in one giant sip. “I should go.”

“But it’s only half-four!”

“I know, but Michael and Da…”

George looks a bit chastised at that. “Will you be at school tomorrow?”

“Dunno.” 

“Eddie Doyle’s got a dirty magazine from his brother,” George adds enticingly. “Says you can see _everything_. French girls, y’know. We’re going to pass it ‘round at dinner.”

“I dunno, maybe.” 

Paul stands, planting his bare feet and stretching the stiffness out of his legs. George studies him soberly from the floor. “Paul…” he hesitates.

Paul finishes a yawn behind his hand before pulling on his socks. They’re warm but still a bit damp, which is better than sopping wet, anyway. “Yeah?”

“Sorry. About your mum, I mean.”

The last daylight from outside is pink and mild through George’s window onto the floorboards, stretching long and lean toward Paul’s toes as the sun dips low. Paul rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, ta.” He picks up his guitar and slings the strap across his shoulders. “Well, see you.”

“Wait— your record—”

Paul turns toward him. “Erm… Why don’t you keep it for awhile? I’ll come ‘round tomorrow and we can practise some more, yeah?”

“All right; yeah,” George nods eagerly.

“And, uh… tell Ian—” Paul pulls the guitar strap tight over his chest, the slick curve of the wood a familiar and comforting weight at his back, one he decides in the moment he is not yet willing to give up. “Tell Ian hullo.” With a tap on his nose he is out the bedroom door; George’s laughter follows him down the stairs.

Outside, the mist has dried up and in its place is a wind that carries ship’s bells. It feels strange to not have the Eddie Cochran record tucked safely beneath his coat, and for a brief moment— just a moment— Paul worries at leaving something so precious in George’s clumsy care; something that for weeks has been his secret, waiting for the right time to be dusted off, rusty but remembered, and shared. 

_“It’s only George,”_ he reminds himself, pulling the iron gate closed and turning onto Upton Green.

The handlebars of his bicycle are like ice; the hard rubber tacks to his fingers, sticky with cold. Paul tugs the sleeves of his jacket low over his hands and concentrates, for the first time, on the rhythm of his heart in his chest against the backbeat of the universe. Slowly, he makes his way home. Home, to his bed and his records, to Buddy Holly and Little Richard, to guitar strings and calloused fingertips and half-finished lyrics in the margins of old essay books; home, to Michael and Da and the old piano in the parlour, and home, if only in his heart, to his mum.

**Author's Note:**

> From what I can gather, Paul didn’t actually start playing guitar until mid-November 1956, and not before his mother’s death. I don’t pretend to be an expert on the intricacies of the timeline, so there are sure to be some other little hitches. Hopefully they don’t detract too much from the story.
> 
> Eddie Cochran’s _Twenty Flight Rock_ was not released as a single internationally until 1957, which annoys me more than it should. I suppose it’s plausible (but unlikely) that an American copy could have wound up in the UK in very late 1956. Which, I know. I never write anything this saccharine, so let me have this one, okay? Okay.
> 
> ...And finally, I toyed with the idea of inserting dear, sweet (fictitious) Tess Martin instead of (equally fictitious) Christine Molloy just to see if anyone would notice, but ultimately decided against it. If you get the reference, you’re brilliant and I love you.


End file.
